


The Slasher

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Whump, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24041254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: The well-adjusted Whitly, shapeshifting into inmate. The one who wasn't the failure.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16
Collections: Prodigal Whump Fic Exchange - Spring 2020





	The Slasher

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrenchcoatRats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatRats/gifts).



> TrenchcoatRats requested: some achy emotional whump/angst and any sort of Whitly family drama or Edrisa or Ainsley.

The well-adjusted Whitly, shapeshifting into inmate, dissociative disaster. Crying in the corner as if that would bring Daddy running from across town. “There, there, my girl,” patting into her hair with his hand. The one who wasn’t the failure.

No, that prize was reserved for Malcolm. The first born always getting the silver spoon. She got the shaft.

Or maybe Endicott did.

That was why she was in Bedford Correctional after all.

Reflecting.

Concrete didn’t really show much. She’d have a better chance collecting her tears and trying to get a glimpse of what she’d become. Her uniform shape left much to be desired, her curves hidden in a box that would never be fashionable. Her mother would have many choice words about not meeting designer standards.

If she visited.

Westchester County wasn’t exactly high on Jessica Whitly’s _100 places to see before you die_ list. Too rural for a city woman, yet not country enough for a weekend escape. She’d avoid ever seeing a prison again if she could, having been inside one too many times with her husband. The Surgeon.

Ainsley’s The Slasher.

Straight out of a horror flick. Blood dribbling down her face she saw mirrored in her hands every day. When she showered in budget accommodations, crimson washed down the drain with her career.

She still didn’t remember what happened.

A stress reaction. One she had made fun of her brother for many times, joining the legion of school kids nipping at him until he returned and panicked, disappearing where no one could find him.

No one found her here.

Did they bother to look?

Who would even be looking? The media? Lotta good that would do her.

Her brother?

He made it _very_ clear where he stood on murder. Wouldn’t even pull the damn trigger himself to protect their family.

To protect her.

Her mother never counted on a man to save them.

Ainsley could use one every once in a while. Kept life more…interesting. Less cell block lonely. But when pressed, she’d take matters into her own hands over succumbing. Passing voices reminded her,

“ _She had it comin’_.”

"Rich bitch."

“Surgeon’s daughter.”

“Fallen anchor.”

She hadn’t dropped to the bottom. She’d snapped into action and risen on a pedestal in her father’s eyes. Taken the gold medal. The shiniest pupil he never saw coming because he was too busy with more promising Malcolm.

Perhaps not the attention she wanted.

But any attention kept her in the spotlight. All news was good news, right?

Or was that too many hours in journalism talking? Too many late nights at the desk twisting a story into whatever it needed to be until the headline was unrecognizable? The byline a mishmash of Picasso and Pollack. A carved visage in newsprint instead of a more illustrious medium.

A self-portrait.

Would she fit next to great-uncle Douglas? Or was she too avant-garde for Mother’s taste? Or maybe too derivative of her father? They'd have to compare works.

“Daddy’s little girl.”

Not so little anymore.

Tortured. So overworked the piece was bleeding with mistakes she’d never be able to cover. No bidders willing to bring her face into their high society living rooms. No makeup to conceal _murderer_ on her forehead.

It wasn’t like her brother’s name change would do the trick. Her face was everywhere. She liked it too much to contemplate a transplant. Loved her body too much to consider letting it go so her cheeks would fill in and hide her structure with her wrongdoings. Perhaps enjoyed the power too much to bury it now that she’d gotten a taste of the rare fillet.

If these cell walls would only talk back to her, the conversation would be a whole hell of a lot more interesting.

Instead, she was left with a composition book and pencil, writing her own story. In the back were her lofty ideas of a prison exposé, most of the time forgotten in favor of discussing her own account. Sister to slasher. Anchor to anchored. Daughter to disowned. My boy to my girl.

Passing the time she now had _way_ too much of.

“You have a visitor,” a guard indicated, releasing her and escorting her toward the visiting floor.

Bars, linoleum, linoleum, shuffle, _squeak_ of prison-issued footwear. Her proud click now replaced with diminishing rubber. A new kind of walk of shame.

A guard placed her at a table, her brother’s hands jittering across from her. She kept her eyes down, admitting, “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“What?!” Malcolm’s surprise reverberated into the table.

She shook her head, trapping her internal monologue.

“Do you have what you need? There’s a list of things I can send.” He sounded so…sincere. Caring. Worried.

She couldn’t look at him. He wasn’t real. He’d disappear back into the ether of the outside world.

“Ains, are you safe?” He rubbed the table, unable to touch her hands.

“I’m here.” Tears escaped from her bottom lids, streaks matching the last time they had seen each other.

“ _Ains —_ “

“Tell Mom I’m keeping my society smile.” Her lip trembled and she finally made eye contact to request — lie. _Please_.

“She wants to come see you.”

Ainsley shook her head, her eyes retreating to the table.

“You don’t need to do this.”

She did. The only way they were all safe from Endicott’s grasp was her quick thinking slash and stab. It came with consequences.

He kept saying more, but it all blended into the whirl that was being in prison.

“I’m gonna go,” she announced. “Take care of yourself.”

She had the guts, yet he was the one who benefitted. He might as well spend that time somewhere better than prison. She was the only one who deserved to be there.

Ainsley Whitly.

Murderer.

The Slasher.

Alone.

A new experience. She didn’t like it.

But it might make a good tell-all book.

Or so she told herself. It was the only thing that kept her going suspended in concrete.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
